


Faster than a Glance

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:30:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4410251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for a prompt on tumblr. Aomine can't stop thinking about Midorima. Or looking at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faster than a Glance

**Author's Note:**

> for tumblr anon. have fun with it.

Aomine sees Midorima less now than he did in middle school, at least theoretically. In middle school they’d spent all day together in class and then in basketball club, hours upon hours that had piled up, sitting next to each other and always in each other’s peripheral vision and yet Aomine hadn’t really noticed Midorima or even really spent that much time with him, all things considered. They’d basically been on separate planes of existence, their trajectories never intersecting, their goals and thoughts not lying in plain sight of each other. There aren’t really moments in particular that Aomine can conjure up, things Midorima had said, even just words he’d read from the book in literature class or the way he’d tied his shoes (only that it had been different then; Aomine pays attention now). The only real thing that stands out to him, embedded in his memory, is the first time he’d seen Midorima shoot from beyond half-court with absolute certainty that the ball would go through the hoop the same way every one of his shots had, and that might have been the first time he’d actually made a note of anything Midorima had said or done.

And then, of course, he’d filed that away and due to certain circumstances hadn’t revisited it very much until recently, since Midorima has somehow become a more consistent part of his life again, since Midorima’s presence has grown so loud that from across a crowded room Aomine is attuned to exactly where he is and what he’s doing, which he shouldn’t be—he didn’t ask for it. But sometime between the end of middle school and now, Midorima got hot. The scrawny stick legs that looked like they could barely support his weight now look like skyscrapers, sturdy and infinitely long; his green hair looks soft and now frames his face in a very attractive way; he’s taller than Aomine now by a considerable amount and he carries himself like he’s fucking three meters; his annoying voice has deepened and that stupid verbal tic of his is now almost stupid-cute. He’s still Midorima, still argumentative and arrogant and stubborn and principled and diligent and downright weird—but even reminding himself of that can’t stop Aomine from staring at him. Even the times they’ve played basketball together, Aomine’s caught himself looking at Midorima when the other team has the ball (not that handicapping himself doesn’t make it interesting and all, but still, it’s not good when it’s unintentional) and it’s just weird.

And, well, now that they’ve got too many mutual friends and acquaintances (or maybe they’re part of a sloppy not-quite-circle of friends, Satsuki’s friends from middle school who’d stayed in Tokyo and Ryou’s friends from art club and people they all know from basketball in one way or another) they’re in the same place at the same time at least once a week, maybe more; they’re on the courts together or watching the same games or hanging out or, like tonight, at a party that Satsuki had had to drag Aomine to.

As if she hears him thinking about her (she probably does by now, or she knows him well enough to know his thought patterns, which is something Aomine’s long since taken for granted after being Satsuki’s best friend for so long) she appears, ducking her way through the crowd of people by the dart boaad.

“Dai-chan,” says Satsuki in that singsong voice of hers.

“Satsuki.”

She plops down next to him on the couch. “Party fun enough for you?”

“I guess,” he says—and then she grins wider and this is one of her traps or something and he’s fallen right in.

“I know you’re enjoying the view.”

Aomine drags his eyes over from where Midorima is mercilessly wrecking everyone at darts with his perfect aim, well-muscled arms barely hidden under a short-sleeved t-shirt that Aomine would never guess he’d wear (but is very glad he did) and scratches his head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve been looking at Midorin the whole time.”

“Have not,” says Aomine. “Wherever I look, he just happens to be.”

Satsuki raises an eyebrow; Aomine can tell she’s trying not to laugh (if she knows his thought patterns he knows all of her facial expressions, especially when she’s hiding multiple things).

“Are you trying to get at something?” says Aomine.

Satsuki shrugs. “Maybe. But it’s no fun if you don’t admit it.”

“Admit what?” says Aomine.

Satsuki ignores the question and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. “I’m hungry.”

“Bring me back some chips?”

She rolls her eyes at him before turning away and tossing her hair.

Aomine sighs and leans back; his eyes wander back over the dartboard; some girls he doesn’t know are playing now and so he sweeps a glance over to the window, where Midorima’s talking to one of their middle school team managers, ducking his head to get his face at the proper angle to talk (and now that Midorima’s bangs are a decent length instead of hanging down and brushing the top of his glasses Aomine can still see Midorima’s face). He’s trying to read their lips but can’t make out anything; he leans forward and barely registers when the couch dips with the weight of someone else beside him.

“Um, excuse me, Aomine-san?”

Ryou is leaning forward, about to touch him, fingers outstretched but a look of nervous apprehension on his face.

“What?”

“If you like Midorima-san, why don’t you just go over and talk to him?”

Aomine blinks. Ryou blinks back. The silence stretches between them like the ends of an elastic string slowly pulling apart.

“I don’t! Like him, I mean,” Aomine says, words blurring together in his haste.

“Ah!” Ryou says, blushing. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I made such an assumption; I mean, you kept looking over at him and you’ve been looking at him like that for weeks and, I mean, in shoujo manga—er, not that we live in one, but…”

And in speaking with Ryou, Aomine’s lost track of Midorima once more—and then he sees him, and this time he really can’t not see him because Takao is dragging him into Aomine’s field of vision.

“Hey, Sakurai, Aomine,” says Takao cheerfully.

Aomine lifts a hand in greeting—Midorima looks almost sullen (still pretty hot, but probably more difficult to deal with).

“Aomine, Shin-chan has something he wants to say to you.”

Aomine raises an eyebrow. “Can he say it himself?”

Takao nudges Midorima. Midorima scowls and looks down his nose at Aomine. Aomine stands up (he’s still not as tall as Midorima and the distance between them is growing with every passing day, but it’s still better than sitting) and meets his stare. But it’s so much softer than Aomine’s been expecting, than it usually is; it’s so pretty in a way that even for Midorima comes out of left field that Aomine isn’t quite sure what to do.

“Say it, Shin-chan.”

“Shut up, Takao.”

His glare has hardened again. Aomine would very much like to shove Takao into the next dimension, although Takao had brought Midorima over here in the first place.

“Aomine.”

He’s stalling for time.

“Midorima.”

Midorima pushes his glasses up his nose, and then all of a sudden leans forward. Aomine reflexively dodges out of the way, but not fast enough to avoid the kiss Midorima places on his nose. When they both straighten up, Midorima’s entire face and neck are red as ripe raspberries and he’s biting his lip. Takao is snickering in the background and Aomine really wants to punch him.

“You moved,” says Midorima.

“I didn’t expect you to fucking lunge at me like that,” says Aomine (and his face is burning up, too, like a basketball that’s been subject to too much friction against hands and floors and backboards).

“I was aiming for your mouth; I thought that was obvious,” says Midorima (if he could flush any darker he probably would).

“Oh?” says Aomine, and then he grins.

Midorima—hot, difficult, contrarian Midorima—wants to kiss him.

“Takao told me. That you were looking at me and that I ought to, ah. Make a move.”

He’s staring straight into Aomine’s eyes as he says it.

“He was, Shin-chan; he was looking for you when we came over!”

“Shut up, Takao,” Aomine says—but Midorima says it with him.

They look at each other again; Midorima offers a sort of mouth-movement, or what Aomine supposes might be his version of a half-smile. Aomine’s still grinning.

“All right,” Aomine says, lifting a hand to Midorima’s cheek. “This is how you do it.”

He leans forward, closes his eyes, and meets Midorima’s mouth with his, pressing and moving his lips to try and get Midorima to open his. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with his tongue, other than move it, so he tries to poke it between Midorima’s lips. Midorima instead pulls away.

“What was that?”

“A real kiss,” says Aomine.

“That was awful,” says Midorima.

“At least I got your mouth,” says Aomine.

Midorima glares, but the look has lost most of its power considering that his hand at some point had found Aomine’s hip and won’t let go, and that he’s sort of leaning into Aomine’s hand on his face. All in all, Aomine considers this a victory.


End file.
